I don't drink
by PotatoBoy
Summary: So for a fandom as large  relatively  as lackadaisy, I've noticed a distinct lack of... fandom activity, is it called? So out of that, this was born. Or... Something. YES THIS WILL CONTAIN GAY CATS.


So for a fandom as large (relatively) as lackadaisy, I've noticed a distinct lack of... fandom activity, is it called? So out of that, this was born. Or... Something. YES THIS WILL CONTAIN GAY CATS.

"I don't drink..."

"_Close one eye, line up sights. Exhale, compensate for recoil, pull trigger." _Almost instinctual by this point in time, the sequence of actions was executed perfectly, the effect instantaneous; a .45 caliber pistol round exited the barrel amidst a small puff of undetonated gunpowder, penetrating the skull of an unfortunate individual. Accompanied by a spatter of blood and brain matter, the hunk of metal exited the back of the cat's head, burying itself in the wooden wall behind him.

"_Perfect," _The killer thought to himself as he turned to leave, instead finding himself staring at the barrel of a shotgun. "_Yeech, how crude." _Thought the part of his brain that was not preoccupied with finding ways to escape the situation. Searching for time, he decided the tried-and-trued tactic of engaging his attacker with small talk.

"So, I suppose that yo-"

"Shut it, you're not talking yourself out of this one." Blinking in surprise, he noted the accent – he also noted that the safety of the shotgun was still on when it was jabbed toward him, possibly to emphasize the point of his adversary's. He resisted a bizarre urge to laugh; to be undone by such a stupid mistake was surely humiliating; then again, you couldn't feel humility where he was going. Or rather, planned on going.

Moving quickly, the former assassin obtained a firm grip on the barrel of the shotgun. As expected, his attacker pulled the trigger instinctively, only to be met with a clicking noise – it would later be known as "Dead man's click". Letting out a surprised grunt, he looked down, having his face promptly introduced with the knee of his victim.

"Unnffff." The shotgun-wielding cat grunted again before kicking the other individual off. Stumbling, said kicked individual tripped over the corpse of his victim, part of him thinking that it was ironic that he would be killed by a dead man, and part of him thinking that he was never going to get this blood out of his suit.

Another click now, this time of a safety switch being flicked. The blast shattered the air, buckshot piercing through the head of a cat, peppering the wall and splattering it – and everything around it – with blood.

Looking up, the cat that had been thrown to the ground noted three things: Firstly, his attacker was dead. Secondly, a much larger shadow was now looming over him, And finally, he was covered in blood. Another suit ruined.

"Ach, Viktor, couldn't you have just knocked him out or something? This will never come out." Picking himself up, he dusted himself off – as if that would help with his current state – and turned to face his colleague, of sorts.

"You are being very rude to the man who just saved your life," His rescuer noted. Sighing and clutching his forehead, he continued: "Why are you always like this, Mordecai? Would it kill you to go and buy a new suit?"

"Hmmph." The suit-obsessed maniac turned around - "Let's go." - and stalked out indignantly, his accomplice following him, barely holding in his chuckles.

"Goddamnit." Pulling the choke knob out again, Mordecai set about cranking, trying to get the fuel to catch a spark. Swearing loudly as the engine turned over once before dying again, he reached for the choke knob, looking up when his arm was intercepted.

"No luck, I take it." Viktor's bemused expression was almost infuriating; something that was clearly not lost upon the large Austrian as he laughed at the expression on his colleague's face. "Here, Let me." Reaching down, he pulled the choke knob back, and turned to begin cranking the starter. In less than a minute, the engine caught and came to life. Slowly pressing the choke knob back, the engine continued to run smoothly. Finishing the operation, Viktor turned to his rather literal partner-in-crime, managing to suppress a smug grin. "That... Is how that is done."

Speechless – something that had not happened since he had first killed someone – Mordecai resigned himself to sitting in the car, arms folded and a heated air about him. Shaking his head and grinning, Viktor backed the car up, turning onto the road home.

For the third time that car trip, Viktor found himself turning to look at the other man sitting with him. He had been unusually quiet the entire trip; he always found something to, quite frankly, bitch about, be it the distinct lack of symmetry of one thing or another, or the age-old topic of how Viktor should really wear a tie.

"So, what is wrong?" It was a question born of genuine concern; when Mordecai wasn't bitching and he wasn't killing something, that was a sign that something was wrong. "Hello?" He passed one paw in front of the object of his worry's face. He wasn't responding – that served as dire an indicator as any.

The slap was quick, and Viktor barely had enough time to register what had happened before the back of his paw was bleeding, claw marks clearly visible.. "What is wrong? What is wrong? I will tell you what is wrong! Firstly," Mordecai began his rant. Ah. That was more like it.

As the smaller man continued on his rant, deaf to the world around him, Viktor cocked his head to one time, staring at him – he wondered how such a small man could have such a large lung capacity; it seemed as if he could talk for several minutes without pausing to take a breath.

"-and are you even listening to me?" Swiveling his head to glare at his colleague-turned-adversary, Mordecai noticed – not for the first time – the distinct lack of a tie around his partner's neck. "And for heaven's sake, wear a tie! You look like a-" Whatever Mordecai was about to compare Viktor's appearance to was never established, as Victor turned and promptly told Mordecai to shut his mouth.

"Excuse me? Did you just tell me to-"

"Yes. Shut it." It was a moment of great historical significance; no one had ever told Mordecai to shut it before. Well, no one alive. And not imprisoned in his basement.

"Anyways, we're here." An innocuous-looking cafe sat ahead of them; it was doubtful that anyone who was not looking for it would notice it. Cutting the engine off, he stepped outside.

To anyone other onlookers, this would have been a most bizarre scene – a cat in a blood-stained suit hurrying to get out of the rain, as a much larger, Austrian cat trailed along behind him, seemingly hell-bent upon yelling at the top of his lungs the former, whilst the smaller cat waved about a pistol at the larger one, telling him to shut up repeatedly while trying to keep his weapon dry, a truly impossible feat in the downpour.

Bursting into the relative dryness of the cafe, Mordecai turned, swearing loudly, and proceeded to yell every insult known to man at Viktor, who picked up his opponent by the scruff of his neck – earning an indignant "Put me down this instant!" - and carried him down into a hidden tunnel.

Moving forward at an ever-quickening pace, Viktor flashed a club-shaped pin at the doorman, whom immediately let him in, and plopped Mordecai down onto a barstool not unlike that of a parent plopping her troublemaker of a child down before a stern talking-to.

"Oh, come on. Stop bickering, you two." The familiar voice of their employer somehow managed to drift over the noise of the ongoing party. "Come on, first round of drinks are on me."

"I don't drink." The disdain in his voice was obvious as Mordecai eyed the pale-ish yellow drink mush as one would eye a live grenade. Though he did seem to be less grumpy than before, Viktor noted.

"C'mon, Mordecai. Drink up." The motivations behind Viktor's attempts to convince Mordecai were both stupid and sinister – part of him wanted to know what would happen if he was drunk, and the other part wanted to see something embarrassing happen, just to see what his reaction would be.

"I told you. I don't drink." Mordecai raised an eyebrow, wondering exactly what Viktor was up to.

"Well, I'm not drinking it, and it'll probably go to waste..." Knowing that Mordecai would never waste anything, he had exploited it. But knowing Mordecai, he would find some way to push it off..."

"Hey! Yes, you. I have a free drink for you. Here." Mordecai yelled, managing to catch the attention of a particularly drunken cat. Viktor nearly slapped himself – how had he not anticipated this?

"Don't, he spat in it." _Good recovery, _Viktor thought to himself.

Clearly disgusted, the drunk eyed Mordecai, one eye half closed - "What d'ya think you're playin' at? Eh? Eh?" Taking a misplaced swing at Mordecai, he instead collapsed and fell to the ground, asleep.

"And that... Is why I don't drink." Clearly uplifted by having an example, Mordecai made a show of nudging the cat's face with his toe, watching in almost fascination as it lolled about as if disjointed.

"Very well, but then it will be wasted." Damn, Viktor certainly had a point there.

Chucking softly, Mordecai raised the glass. "You know me too well, I think." He raised the glass in a mock toast before downing it.

The harshness of the alcohol surprised him – he had known that it would be a kick, but he had not expected this. Gasping for breath, he thumped himself in the chest, trying to recover. Soon, the pain was replaced with a rather pleasant buzzing sensation – feeling slightly woozy, he turned towards Viktor - "That wasn't so bad, now... now... now was it?"

"That was just one. Let's see you drink some more."

Countless drinks later, Viktor was almost feeling sorry for Mordecai – he was drunk "off his rocker", as some people would say. Lying on the bar table, he managed to get out between hics - "Viktor... I ever tell you about Viktor? Great man, he is... Built like a sh(hic) house... No, a... a.. a... (hic)" At this point, he made a grand gesture, accidentally throwing his glass backwards.

"Oops, I, I dropped my... my, uhh... my thing. So, let me tell you about... about... Ugh, when do I get my brain back?"

Though he had to admit, Mordecai was pretty funny when he was drunk.

"So, yeah, Viktor... Yeah... He's great... I, uhhh... Uhhhh... Viktor...?"

"Hmm?" Turning his head, he glared out of one eye towards Mordecai – personal experience had taught him that a stern stance was the best way to deal with drunks.

"I.. I, uhh... I love you." Lurching forward drunkenly at this statement, Mordecai somehow managed to lock their lips together, drunkenly trying to pull Viktor in closer to him.

Viktor could taste the alcohol on Mordecai's lips – Jesus, how much had he had? - and pressed against Mordecai, pulling his body closely.

Suddenly pushing Viktor off, Mordecai stared at him. "What the hell was that? Why'd you kiss me?" Even through his drunken stupor, Viktor could see that he was blushing profusely. "Why, I... I..." He never completed this statement, as he chose this point in time to pass out, falling against Viktor.

Sighing and clutching his face with his paw, Viktor slung Mordecai over his shoulder – a maneuver he had repeated many times with people who were much more dead – and headed back to the car.


End file.
